Colin F. Jones


Rows of coffins; boxes draped with flags,
Bloodied bodies lie in body bags
The bugle plays; lowered in their graves,
Ceremonial pomp; soldiers line the paves
The cameras flash; the army chiefs are there,
And weeping folk; those who really care,
And while they sleep beyond the realms of pain,
Their brothers lie distraught with ill disdain,
With shattered limbs and minds dazed by war,
With unseeing eyes ; left on a foreign shore.
Where are the cameras… the media stream;
The Generals who promote the national dream?
‘Tis soon the graves from thoughts are shed,
But the maimed and wounded were always dead.